


Heir(s) to the Throne

by AlejandroAsher



Category: Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe - Benjamin Alire Sáenz
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Healthy Relationships, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mexican History, Mexican-American War, Mexico, Mystery, Mystery Character(s), National Revolutions, Pining, Princes & Princesses, Revolution, Romance, Royalty, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Star-crossed, Unhealthy Relationships, longfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlejandroAsher/pseuds/AlejandroAsher
Summary: Rated "Mature" due to eventual plot events. May change to "Explicit".In an alternate universe where Mexico has become a monarchy, the Mexican Empire’s Prince and heir to the throne, Aristóteles Mendoza, is sick and tired of having to appear and act perfect for the sake of the crumbling kingdom’s image. And being expected to meet and marry his soulmate within the year only adds to his misery. But when Dante Quintana, Mexico’s most outstanding artist, is summoned to El Paso, Mexico’s capital, to paint a new portrait of the Prince, Aristóteles might just make a new friend for the very first time.And he might also recruit said friend to help him investigate a mysterious photograph of an unfamiliar young prince that resembles his parents, a feat that leads the boys on an adventure filled with the unraveling of a million secrets, a revolution that turns the kingdom upside down, and the development of an unlikely romance.Or:Ari's a prince. Dante's a peasant. A royalty/soulmate AU.Dedicated tolostintheverse.Thank you so much for your friendship and letting me ramble about all my ideas. You're a truly amazing soul.
Relationships: Aristotle Mendoza/Dante Quintana
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Heir(s) to the Throne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostintheverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostintheverse/gifts).



> So, I'm totally fed up with the lack of longfics in this fandom. It's a problem that someone needs to help change, so I'm doing my part, lol. 
> 
> This is a story that takes place in 1820s Mexico, in an alternate universe in which Mexico won the Mexican-American War and consequently is extremely large, including not only the mainland, but also all of Central America and all of the American southwest. The Mendozas--Ari and his parents (his sisters have been married off lol)--are the ones who reign over the kingdom. The Quintanas were a peasant family living in Alta California before Dante began gaining fame throughout the territory of Alta California, and pretty soon the entire kingdom, for his outstanding artistic skills. It's also a soulmate AU in which you stop aging at 16 years old until you find your soulmate, so that you two can grow old together--Ari will elaborate in a bit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ari stares at the lavender sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Please read these notes before you start reading the fic ashgklasghklalhkag
> 
> I'm so excited to bring this to all of you. _Aristotle and Dante_ is a story that truly touched my heart--I've never felt so seen before. I'm a gay Mexican-American teenage boy _just like_ Ari and Dante. I'm very similar to the both of them, but each in a different way. If mpreg was real, I'd be their son, basically. ~~I even look like Dante.~~ Anyways, since A&D is so important to me I've been wanting to write a longfic for it for a very long time, and now here I am!! This is my first dive into a historical/non-modern AU, especially one with a royal context, and I feel so lucky to be writing it since there will be a _ton_ of Mexican culture infused into this fic, most-or-all of it taken from my own experiences. I'm going to have fun with it--I don't follow Mexican history to a T in this fanfiction, because it _is_ all purely fiction, so I don't really feel pressured to make everything 100% historically accurate--keep that in mind, lol. If you guys have any questions regarding what's real and what's embellished/a product of my imagination, please ask!! You won't be offensive, I promise. Comments are my favorite thing in the whole world; ask away!
> 
> And since there'll be so much Mexican culture, there will also be plenty of Spanish. There will be footnotes next to the Spanish-language text in this fic, so just click on the number in brackets whenever you see something you don't understand and get a translation/explanation. I hope the footnotes make the reading experience better :)
> 
> And one last thing: please, please, please go and check out [smudged_ink_writing's rewrite of AADDTSOTU from Dante's perspective](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24670645/chapters/59810257) & [lostintheverse's continuation of AADDTSOTU](https://www.archiveofourown.org/series/1411420). They're both so good and I stan them.
> 
> Okay, that's all!!! If you've read this whole note, you deserve a cookie. <3 ENJOY!

**Aristóteles Mendoza**

I hate this. I hate all of this so fucking much. I want to tear my hair out, or stand up and yell all of the obscenities I know--both in English and Spanish--out into the empty void.

I stare out the windows of my bedchamber, yearning for the opportunity to go out and do _something_ , anything other than the typical, standard, monotone routine that comes with being born into Mexican royalty. One would think that being the heir to the throne would consist of a life full of adventure and excitement, but one would be gravely wrong. 

I find it more stimulating to observe the colors of the evening sky--a lavender-orange gradient--and how they paint the trees and grass and neighbouring buildings of the vicinity, or to go out and spend time alone in the forest than it is to have to wave and smile at the crowd of Mexican citizens who adore and admire us for no good reason. Especially considering their very own government really isn’t helping them put food on the table.

This is a sight I see every single night. Save for the occasional pouring rain, the sky will always look like this at this hour of the evening. It will never change, not for anything or anyone. The Mexican Empire could fall and the sky would still look like this. It will remain this color, and it will remain in its place for eternity.

A loud, long sigh escapes me as I collapse onto my bed, infinitely thankful that it’s finally late enough for me to change out of the royal getup that I’m expected to wear as the prince at nearly all hours of the daytime. I’ve always, _always_ preferred to wear comfortable clothing that doesn’t require a thousand layers or a million buttons. A simple sleeveless shirt, or a pair of shorts that exposes my lower legs. Such _scandalous_ fashion choices, I’m aware. I promise you I’m not a streetwalker.

When I was younger, I would fidget with and unbutton the clothes that my mother would dress me in. I always tried to minimize it to only one or two layers. Once I’d turned twelve years of age, I’d stopped trying to avoid my unfortunate royal wardrobe. I'd learned trying to avoid dressing up properly didn't do anyone any good.

I look down at what I _am_ wearing now, a sleeveless white cloth shirt and boxer shorts. That’s it, nothing else. My mother would likely banish me from the entire Mexican kingdom if I dared to leave my bedchamber wearing only this, but it’s not like I’m particularly interested in anything the outdoors has to offer; I think I’ll be alright. So far, anything involving leaving my bedchamber has consisted of all the same stress-inducing “you have to be the perfect prince because everyone thinks the kingdom is falling apart and we can’t let them know that they’re right” bullshit that make me want to commit a crime so grave they have no choice but to sentence me to the guillotine. Or maybe even burn me at the stake—but in any case, I prefer the former to the latter.

I suppose it’s appropriate that this is one of the only hours of the day I can wear whatever I like, for this is also one of the only hours of the day I can _be_ whatever I like, which is lazy, apathetic, and without responsibility. At least, within the four walls of my bedchamber. 

I pull the blankets over myself, embracing and relishing the soft warmth my bed provides that, thus far, I’ve been unable to find anywhere else, no matter how often my mother reassures me that one day I’ll want to reign over the Mexican Empire, and that one day I’ll find my soulmate—a beautiful, young princess—and that she will be by my side while I rule. 

The reminder that my mother—in addition to the entire buttfucking kingdom—is expecting me to meet my soulmate and get married soon makes me roll my eyes. I’m fifteen years of age, and I’m turning sixteen years at the end of the summer. Society says your sixteenth is the ideal year to get married due to it being the year that you'll stop aging until you meet your soulmate. If you’re not married by the time you’ve lived eighteen years, you’re deemed undesirable and old, a lost cause. It's theorized that those who don't meet their soulmate by eighteen years have no soulmate, or their soulmate is dead. A person who's lived eighteen years or more without their soulmate becomes ten times more likely to die a lonely, loveless virgin, all because you stopped aging and never woke up to a silver streak in your hair the morning after meeting ****_****__tu alma gemela._ [1]

However, I’m the prince, of course, so _apparently_ that will never happen to me. Legend says the royal Mendoza family has never had a member that didn't meet their soulmate. But no matter what my mother or my family history or the rest of Mexican society tries to tell me, I’d be willing to bet every single _****__real_ [2]to my family name that'll either never happen, or my parents will get so desperate for their heir to the throne to have a wife that they’ll arrange a marriage for me with the first beautiful young princess that expresses any interest. Maybe they’ll feign her silver streak and dye my own hair while I'm asleep.

 _Wanting to meet my soulmate. Wanting to marry someone. Wanting to rule over the Mexican Empire._ I wonder what that’s like, to genuinely want something or someone so badly. Does my father experience that? Did he ever badly want a seat at the throne, or to marry my mother? I wouldn’t know. He’s a man of no words, even around me, his son. And I wondered why my mom had little to say about my father’s silence. _I thought family was_ _ ****_“sumamente importante” [3] _in Mexican culture, Mamá. You’re always reminding me of how important our culture and customs are._

I sigh again and look around my bedchamber. I chuckle to myself, softly. It’s pointlessly enormous, though I know my parents’ bedchamber is about twice as large as this. What am I--what is _anyone_ \--meant to do with all this space? Two peasant families of four could comfortably live in a space this large.

My gaze lands on the grand shelf of books at the other end of the bedchamber. It would be such unnecessary labor to walk all the way over there just to grab a heavy book and decide _not_ to read it, then walk all the way back there to put the book back. I have access to the many, many books lining my shelves in my bedchamber, _plus_ the seemingly-infinite library here in the castle (“you’re so lucky! Not everyone has the opportunity to read and indulge in so many books! Go ahead, Aristóteles, go read a book!”), but I couldn’t be bothered to read any of them. I’ve never read a book on my own by choice--only for scholastic assignments have I forced myself to open the pages and read. And even then, the only reason why I’ve been able to force myself to do so is the knowledge that my mother would likely starve me to death if I’d dared to earn anything below a perfect grade in school.

That’s an exaggeration. Probably.

They tell me I’m lucky. The servants and the cooks and my parents and supposedly, the people of the kingdom as well, all tell me that I’m the luckiest boy in Mexico, that God has blessed me with a life so rich and beautiful that I would be eternally damned if I didn’t appreciate it. It would appear that I’m on my way to Hell.

Sure, maybe I’ve never gone hungry in my life. Sure, maybe I can attend what are _allegedly_ the best schools in the kingdom. Sure, maybe there are girls who throw themselves at me whenever I leave the castle. Sure, maybe my family is so loaded with _reales_ that I’ll never have to worry about finances ever in my life. I have it totally made, and yet, throughout my whole life, I’ve always felt that being the son of royalty simply didn’t live up to the hype.

Something might be wrong with me. If Mexico's _****__rey y reina_ [4]suddenly wanted to adopt a fourth child, there would be peasant parents lining up outside the castle to let my parents adopt their child. And surely, that child would grow up and properly learn what it meant to be the heir to Mexico’s throne, and dream and yearn for the day he finally became _el rey_ and found his _reina_. That child would do everything my parents want me to do. Everything I haven’t done. Everything that sometimes, I think I _can’t_ do.

Maybe he would love studying at the most prestigious and advanced schools in the kingdom. Maybe he would adore having unlimited access to some of the longest, most difficult, _heaviest_ readings in the world. Maybe he would like to spend _reales_ like they were no object. Maybe he would flirt back with the girls who giggled and flipped their hair whenever he came near them. Maybe any royal son who was the complete opposite of myself would make my parents happy. I am their worst case scenario.

I look out my window again, this time, up at the sky since I’m laying down on my back. The sky is now a deep purple instead of lavender as the sun sets. Pretty soon it’ll be a dark blue, and then pitch-black. The nighttime is beautiful. Especially when it rains.

I’ve only ever been outside alone twice whilst it was raining: once when I was six years of age and I wanted to jump and play in the puddles (my mother saw me and very quickly brought me back inside and scolded me) and another time when I was thirteen and I just wanted a break from everything and everyone. Schoolwork and responsibilities and expectations had been piling onto my shoulders. I felt like I was going to suffocate, so I decided to open my bedchamber windows and use them to escape into the forest neighboring the castle. I didn’t walk too far, and I haven’t done it again since; it was an incredibly daring move and it was a miracle I never got caught.

There are many, many days that I wished I had it in me to rebel against my parents’ rules again.

I stare at the sky and wish it was raining. I stare at the sky and wish I could go out, run in the rain, get my hair and clothes wet. Live a little, do something _more._ I wondered if peasant children had permission from their parents to do so, to live a life that’s more than just work and schooling and sitting pretty for the people so they think you know what you’re doing. In an odd sort of way, I almost _envy_ the peasant population of Mexico--they’re free in a way I don’t think they understand.

Maybe _I_ don’t understand it either.

I let my dreams of freedom carry me off to sleep. Maybe one night I’ll be able to go out and get soaked in the rain once more, but tonight is not that night.

* * *

Four-thirty ante meridiem, the time of day in which I always wake up. I needn’t have an alarm to wake me up; somehow, I’ve just become accustomed to waking up at this hour. I get out of bed before even my parents do, something my mother finds preposterous, though I’ve never been exactly sure why. Isn’t a son who involuntarily wakes up during the early morning hours preferable to a son who involuntarily wakes up during the afternoon hours?

I sit up in my bed and rub my eyes. A yawn escapes me and I stretch. Then I get up and move to my wardrobe, located adjacent to the wall with the large window that my bed is pushed up against.

I throw open the wardrobe doors and almost groan at the stupid collection of clothes I own. There isn’t too much variation between any of the outfits here, and it’s not like any of them are particularly flattering. I don’t like the way these garments look on me--or anyone, for that matter--but then again, I’m not sure what I _would_ like. I’m not saying I’d prefer to go outside in the nude, but I might as well when my options are limited to the standard princely uniform and absolutely nothing else.

There’s a chest of drawers near the back of my wardrobe room that I keep my other clothes in--the ones I actually like. I pull out a sleeveless shirt that looks like it’s been washed with mud from all the stains--it’s clean, I promise--and also a pair of grey shorts made out of the same cloth. I pull off my shirt and put on the one I pulled from the drawer, and slide on the grey shorts. Then I leave my wardrobe, not bothering to close the doors behind me, and start to head outside to the forest behind the castle.

No one ever goes out to the forest behind the castle. There are no young teenage girls screaming to get a good look at the prince or at the king, there are no beggars pleading for just a single _real_ to be thrown into their hat, there are no classmates of mine that my mother insists I befriend and spend time with. It’s actually forbidden for anyone who isn’t a member of the royal family or a gardener who tends to the plants in the garden that neighbors the forest to enter it, making it one of my favorite places to spend my free time--in the rare moments that I do have any free time. It’s perfect.

I savor the feeling I get, walking down the endless corridors and rooms of this stupidly big castle that simultaneously serves as the only home I’ve ever known, as well as the capital of the Mexican Empire. There’s no servants or butlers or maids or chefs running around, tending to my parents’ every whim. The entire castle is empty. The help are all at their own individual homes while my parents are still asleep.

It occurs to me that I could probably ask for a castle this large just for myself, seeing as I’m the prince. But what a waste of labor it would be to order a ton of workers to construct a lonely castle for me when it’d probably finish construction by the time my father dies and I inherit the throne. Then the castle would actually be mine--but then again, I wouldn’t be alone. I’d have my queen next to me. Not to mention the children I’ll have to raise with her. Womp womp.

 _Does it even make any sense for me to have a soulmate if I’m so apathetic about marriage?_ I ponder silently as I finish my trek through the castle and reach the forest outside. Sometimes I silently wish upon a star that I was a peasant (a feat that would make my mother faint for several reasons) so that my lack of interest in romance could be explained away with ease: _Oh, he’s just a lonely peasant boy that wasn’t meant to procreate or fall in love. It’s natural selection, after all. People like him aren’t meant to have a place in our society. Boo-hoo, poor peasant boy._

Alas, here I stand, taking a stroll through a forest behind a castle in which the royal family of Mexico resides. Nobody ever gets what they want, do they?

My vision wanders around the environment surrounding me. The leaves on these trees and the grass beneath my feet are the greenest of greens, even here in the early morning when the sunrise has barely begun. The sky is a deep orange; it must be about five ante meridiem now. Butterflies and various birds fly overhead. Many people say that animals--especially airborne ones--are beautiful. I never agreed with them.

I’m not saying that they’re awful, I’m merely apathetic to their entire existence, much like my own.

I stop walking, and then I twist to the left and to the right. I recoil a little at the sound of my spine popping. It’s not pleasant, but it’s necessary.

Then I begin to run.

This is what I do in the early morning with my free time before I inevitably am summoned back to the castle for breakfast and the morning rosary, and in today’s case, Sunday Mass. I bite the inside of my cheek at the reminder I’ve given myself that I’ll have to participate in my family’s Roman Catholic religion, as is tradition. My mother says that those who are a part of royalty should be devout Catholics, God-fearing people. 

I wonder if I’m the only Mexican in the kingdom who has doubts. I’m not an atheist, but I’m not exactly a Catholic either. Can you blame me, after having been more or less forced into a religion without much opportunity to choose whether or not I even wanted to follow one? It hadn’t occurred to me that Catholicism wasn’t something I wanted to pursue until I was about thirteen.

My family was attending Mass in the castle’s chapel when it occurred to me, during the Eucharist, that I really had no opinion regarding whether or not any of these teachings were actually real, and that I would be perfectly fine just dropping it. I knew my parents wouldn’t be, though, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. I’ve found that keeping my mouth shut is necessary nine out of ten times I want to say something in order to keep the peace. Hell, maybe I’ll become a boring adult just like them and one day I’ll actually _want_ to be Catholic. But for now, being religious is a distant dream. I’m fine where I am.

I continue running. My legs take me whizzing past all of the trees, the birds and the butterflies. I breeze past them, barely acknowledging their existence.

I wish I could breeze past this life as a prince the same way I breeze past the living beings that inhabit the forest.

* * *

The rosary is so incredibly tedious. It always is, of course—there’s nothing special about this morning’s prayer time with my family. Fifteen mysteries, each one to represent fifteen decades. One _****__Padre nuestro_ [5]and ten _Ave Marias_ per mystery.

My father, my mother, and I sit here in the living room, each of us using our prayer beads to keep track of how many prayers we've said thus far. We pray the rosary once every Sunday morning, before attending Sunday morning Mass. The task of praying the rosary in its entirety—all 15 mysteries instead of the truncated 5 like the peasants do—is the worst amalgam of tedium and monotony imaginable. I remember as a child, when I was first taught how to do the rosary, I'd almost cried out of boredom and a desperation to do _anything_ else other than recite the same prayers over and over again. It makes me chuckle a little bit now, when I think about it. _The rosary was so terribly boring it brought me to tears._

I miss when my sisters were still unmarried and lived in the castle. They lightened the prayer load a bit, because their presence meant I had to lead the mysteries less often.

There's a structure for praying the rosary. The rosary is meant to be done among others. At the commencement of a new mystery, one person will recite the beginning half of a prayer alone, _el Padre nuestro._

_** ** _ _Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre, venga a nosotros tu reino, hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo._ [6]

That was the first half of the prayer. Then, everyone else participating would recite the second half of the prayer in unison.

_** ** _ _Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día. Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden. No nos dejes caer en la tentación, y líbranos de todo mal. Amén._ [7]

That was the second half of the prayer. And after that, it was time for the ten _Ave Maria_ s, recited in the same way the _Padre nuestro_ had been prayed: with one person reciting the former half alone and everyone else reciting the latter half together. 

I always felt so awkward or out of place, leading the mysteries. I didn't mind reciting the prayer along with everyone else because their voices drowned out my own pretty easily. But when everyone was quiet, listening to me recite the _Ave Maria_ ten times consecutively...it was uncomfortable. I loathed it. _Loathe_ is not a word I use frequently to describe things I hate. Sure, I hate a lot—a _lot—_ of things, but loathing something is a whole nother level.

Words. Words were tedious, too, in a way. Learning how to spell them—English ones, at least. I will be forever grateful that my mother tongue was Spanish, a language that actually makes _sense_ , for English words have spellings so complicated and difficult to remember, at one point, I stopped trying. Spanish was a much easier language that spelled words the way they sounded. _Why couldn't all languages be like that?_ I wondered many times as I looked over an English vocabulary list I would be given in school, horrified at all the unnecessary consonants and irregular vowel pronunciations. 

I seldom saw a need to even learn English here in Mexico. Texas—the province that the kingdom's capital of El Paso is located in—was once an independent nation, and an American state for a short period of time, so by the time Mexico had gained victory in the Mexican-American war, English speakers had populated what was now the northernmost region of the Mexican Empire. A decision was made to make English yet another official language of the Mexican Empire despite the fact that only the northern provinces used English. Spanish was still very much dominant, and if you were to travel down to a southern province or state, such as Yucatán or _****_Guatemala [8], I would guarantee you there would be no English speakers. None.

Alas, my rigorous, over-the-top education has forced upon me a garbage language made by garbage people that I have no real use for other than to read books I would never want to read anyways.

I blink when I realize the room has gone silent. My mother and father are staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to commence the sixth mystery. I clear my throat a bit too loudly. " _Disculpe,"_ I murmur, and start with the _Padre nuestro._

* * *

_"Aristóteles,_ why were you so distracted this morning during the rosary?" my mother asks me as I settle into bed that night, exhausted and weary from all the religious obligations that are included on the Sabbath day. God allegedly said that working is a sin on the Sabbath, and yet, no other day of the week feels more like a chore. Not even _lunes_ , the dreaded beginning of the work week.

 _ ****_ _"Lo siento, mamá."_ [9]I always get distracted by something while we're doing the rosary."

“But by what, _****__hijito_ [10] _?_ What's going on up inside that head of yours?"

I shrug. "Not much." I lie down on my back, pulling my blankets close, hoping she picks up on the I'm-tired-leave-me-alone cues I'm dropping.

She only sighs and sits down on my bed, seemingly picking up the cue but choosing to ignore it. "I'm quite worried about you, _****__mi príncipe_ [11] _._ "

My eyebrows furrow in anxiety. A familiar sinking feeling settles in my stomach. "Why?"

My mother sighs. "You must know that the Empire is in limbo, right?"

My jaw sets. "I would know if you and Papá didn't keep everything about Mexican politics so close to your chests. I've heard rumors, of course, but I know I shouldn't be trusting peasants, for I am above that." There's a certain attitude in my voice that comes out without my intending to. But now it's out there, and I can't take it back.

I just gave my mother lip.

She only sighs, loud and long, before putting her hand on my chest. " _Mi príncipe_ , there are reasons we don't tell you everything."

"And what exactly are those reasons?"

"We don't want to stress you out."

“Oh, great job keeping me stress free by putting me in a rigorous bilingual education and forcing me to wear a trillion layers of clothing every day and making me meet and kiss the hands of every princess in the Americas. You've done an excellent job, _****__Su Alteza_.[12]”

My mother stares at me with a hardened expression. She has this look in her eyes that reminds me of when I was a young child and I was still young enough to get spanked for my misbehavior. "We want to restore our image to the Mexican people, make an attempt to assure them we have everything under control," she tells me, the carefulness in her voice completely absent now. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from retorting. "It was recommended to us that we update our self-portraits."

My face scrunches up. “But why? We all get our portraits done on our birthdays.”

Every year on their birthday, a member of the royal family must sit for their portrait to be done. Said portrait is then distributed all across the Mexican Empire--don’t ask me how, it’s not like I know how nationwide communications are carried out. It was one of those royalty things I just got used to and never questioned. I’m not exactly sure why we do it. Maybe it’s so our citizens remember what the people that aren’t helping them survive look like.

I’ve never enjoyed sitting still for my portrait. It’s long, it’s monotonous, and it’s boring, just sitting in a chair perfectly still for hours while a painter observes and paints you. Ugh. Wouldn’t it just be easier to take a photograph of me and have the painter base their painting upon that? Or, even better-- _just use those photographs as our portraits?_ It’s as if my parents--not to mention the rest of Mexican society--is allergic to _****_technological advancements. [13]

My mother pauses, and the look on her face makes me think that I'm not going to like what she's about to say. “Aristóteles, you're fifteen years of age. The time for marriage is steadily approaching, and one day, you and your soulmate will take over as _****__el rey y la reina del Imperio Mexicano_ [14].”

I don't have to speak to let her know I hate it. My face speaks a thousand words. Or maybe a thousand profanities.

"So, it was recommended to us that we update _your_ self-portrait in preparation for your wedding."

All sixteen words she just spoke sound off alarm bells in my head. "Okay, a few things,” I tell her as I sit up in my bed. “One, by ‘update our self portraits’ you really meant ‘update _my_ self portrait,’ and you’re always talking about how important honesty is, so maybe practice what you’re preaching, and two, I don't want to get married and you already know that, and three, why the hell are you speaking about my wedding as if I've already proposed to someone?"

"There are three princesses whose families we've spoken to that we would like you to meet," she tells me. “I think it’s very likely one of them could be your soulmate, Aristóteles.”

I groan louder than I've ever groaned in my life. I want to cry.

"Ari," she coos, using my nickname from my childhood. "This will be good for you!"

" _Mamá,_ I'm not going to fall in love with a princess because you're arranging it! Nobody falls in love that way!"

"It’s not arranging a marriage," Mamá counters. “Many royals find their soulmates in other royal families. That’s how your father and I met.”

“Okay, and what if she’s not royalty?”

“Then we shall hold a ball open to the public!” she says, and the speed with which she’s answered my question makes me think she’s had this backup plan a long time. “We’ll invite all the young girls from the kingdom and let fate--let God’s will run its course.”

I say nothing to her. I just stare at her.

I'm upset.

She sighs. "You'll be meeting all three princesses and the portrait artist next week."

"Great. I can't wait to stand still for seven hours straight in a chair while some random man does a bad job of painting me."

My mother's face lights up, if only a little, and I wonder why until she finishes her thought. "We aren't having just any artist come to paint you, _hijito_. We've commissioned Dante Quintana to come to El Paso for the job!" She exclaims this as if it's wonderful news.

I stare at her blankly for a moment.

"I have no idea who that man is," I tell her bluntly.

"He's not a man. He's a boy. An adolescent, just like you. He's become famous throughout the kingdom for his extraordinary artistic talents, and we've sent him to El Paso for you!"

I blink. _I hadn't realized other adolescent boys existed in Mexico._ Well, that might not be entirely true--throughout the ten years I’ve been in school, I’ve met a few other boys my age, but… I don’t feel like I belong among them. I’m not cut from the same cloth as any of my peers. _And how is that possible?_ Talking to other fifteen-year-old boys felt like talking to a brick wall. Maybe it was a royalty-superiority thing. I never really knew, and I’d decided that I was doing just fine without befriending any, so I’d never put too much brain power into answering that question. "He's _my age?_ "

"Yes! But you would never know it from the way he paints. Ari, I've seen his work. He will do an excellent job with your portrait. Trust me."

I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. No fifteen-year-old boy I’ve ever met is smart or talented enough to be recognized as such by an entire kingdom, much less the kingdom’s _royalty._ I almost doubt my mother’s words for a moment. _An adolescent boy having outstanding artistic talents? Sounds fabricated to me._ No matter his age, I still don’t want my portrait to be redone.

My mother is able to read my thoughts like a book. It scares me. “Please just trust me, Aristóteles _._ Do you trust me?”

I sigh, knowing full well I won’t be able to say “no” without being a bad person. “Yes, I do, _mamá.”_

She gives me a small smile, one that lasts only a short number of seconds. “Thank you.” Then she kisses me on my forehead, wishes me goodnight, and leaves my bedchamber.

I let go of the breath I was holding and flop back onto my mattress. _Three princesses. An adolescent boy artist._ It’s times like these I wish I could open the windows to my bedchamber and sneak out again, like I did when I was thirteen. Like I had dreamt about doing just last night.

I’m so tired of meeting new people. _And I only even know four people!_ My father, my mother, and my twin sisters Cecilia and Sylvia. But although they’re the only ones in the _world_ that I know, being a prince entails saying hello to the servants and cooks and smiling and waving at the peasants and commoners when they crowd around the castle to catch a glimpse of _el rey y la reina_ . I know no one, but I have to see everyone. And it’s significantly more exhausting than it should even be _allowed_ to be. If being royalty really is a life full of luxury, it should be against the law for me to be this tired.

A headache begins to balloon in my head. I groan and pull the sheets over myself once more. _If only I could pause time, just for a little while._ That would be my otherworldly power of choice, if witchcraft was legal, and if I was interested in black magic at all (hearing stories about how _las brujas_ were burned at the stake killed any desire to engage in such activities). Being able to stop time to do what you want, to be able to breathe and be yourself and not have to complete school assignments or wear layers upon layers of million- _real_ clothing is my idea of paradise.

Alas, I watch as the sun sets once again, and the color of the sky changes from lavender to deep purple to dark blue to pitch black. _****__El sol_ [15] comes down and _****__la luna_ [16] goes up. Seconds tick by, minutes pass, days, weeks, months, years. Decades. Centuries. Eons. Everything and everyone is on the move, making progress, growing up, in a rush to move on.

But all I want is just a little more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I feel I should mention: the rosary is something that is actually done by Catholics, but most people only pray 5 mysteries instead of the full 15. Praying the 5 mysteries takes like, 20 minutes? I've been doing it for years now with my family so it goes by fast. I've gotten used to it.
> 
> **Footnotes:**
> 
> 1 Spanish for "your soulmate". [return to text]
> 
> 2 Reales were the form of currency in 1820s Mexico, while the country was briefly a monarchy. There’s a few things in this work that are based upon the First and Second Mexican Empires. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Spanish for “extremely important”. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Spanish for "king and queen". [return to text]
> 
> 5 Or, in English, the “Our Father.” [return to text]
> 
> 6 “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven.” [return to text]
> 
> 7 “Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” [return to text]
> 
> 8 I am aware Guatemala is its own country. Not all Latin American locations are Mexico. Not all Latinos are Mexican. But in this time period in the 1800s, most or all of Central America was part of Mexico. [return to text]
> 
> 9 Spanish for “I’m sorry, Mom.” [return to text]
> 
> 10 An affectionate Spanish term a parent calls their son. Literally means “little son”. [return to text]
> 
> 11 Spanish for “my prince”. [return to text]
> 
> 12 Spanish for “Your Highness”. [return to text]
> 
> 13 These “technological advancements” Prince Ari speaks of aren’t very impressive. It’s the 1800s. [return to text]
> 
> 14 Spanish for "the king and queen of the Mexican Empire". [return to text]
> 
> 15 Spanish for "the sun". [return to text]
> 
> 16 Spanish for "the moon". [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for checking out my Aridante fanfic! 
> 
> I also have two oneshots you might enjoy-- ["nicknames"](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/23672965) and ["Happy Father's Day"](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24831184).


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